


Long Time the Manxome Foe He Sought

by Anglophile_Rin



Series: The Jabberwocky Universe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Depression, Drug Use, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-07
Updated: 2012-08-07
Packaged: 2017-11-11 15:21:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/479935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglophile_Rin/pseuds/Anglophile_Rin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John couldn’t stand the sight of him. Not of his oddly pale eyes – hatefully one-of-a-kind-, or his despicably unruly dark curls or his annoyingly pale skin and long limbs, or even those frustratingly familiar looks he would give John as easily and thoughtlessly as breathing, from his smirks to his sulks. </p><p>If John was truly honest, he’d be more than happy to never clap eyes on the man again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Long Time the Manxome Foe He Sought

 

 

Sherlock was still in bed. By John’s count, he’d been there for forty-three hours and eighteen minutes. Nowhere near the record, but still a good go for anyone – normal _or_ Sherlockian.

John’s stomach twisted in knots when this occurred to him. Not because he was worried – well, he _was_ worried, he was always worried- but, rather, because he was glad. If Sherlock was in bed, he was buried under a mountain of blankets. And if he was buried under a mountain of blankets, John didn’t have to look at him.

John couldn’t stand the sight of him. Not of his oddly pale eyes – hatefully one-of-a-kind-, or his despicably unruly dark curls or his annoyingly pale skin and long limbs, or even those frustratingly familiar looks he would give John as easily and thoughtlessly as breathing, from his smirks to his sulks.

If John was truly honest, he’d be more than happy to never clap eyes on the man again.

But all the same, when Sherlock stumbled into the kitchen an hour later, haphazardly wrapped in a sheet and running a hand through those blasted curls, John put a hand lightly on his side, and reached up to peck a quick (and oddly impersonal) kiss on his cheek. Because that’s what you _did_ when your husband walked into the room; even if he did look exactly like your dead son.

 

***

 

Hamish Watson-Holmes was as much of a surprise as it was really possible for any child of two men to be. No, there was no broken condom, or forgotten pill, or doctor’s assurances that they wouldn’t be able to conceive (though any doctor worth their salt would have surely passed down that particular diagnosis). What there was instead was a very grateful client who couldn’t afford to pay them, as her father’s inheritance was largely lost to the Thames. So she decided to pay them with a blush and a business card for “All Family Planning” pressed into John’s hand while Sherlock swooped off impressively, hailing a cab while simultaneously tying his scarf. Her name was handwritten in small, loopy letters on the bottom: Mary Morstan. She was a surrogate, she explained to John. She could pick her own clients and, if they wanted, she’d give them a spot at the top of her list.

John smiled, thanked her, and followed after Sherlock, having absolutely no intention of ever calling the woman, or even showing his boyfriend the card.

 

Not even a month later, Sherlock proposed. Proposed, of course, being used in a much more academic sense than the norm in this type of situation. In fact, the whole event read quite a bit more like a thesis proposal than a romantic gesture.

“John. I have come to the conclusion that it would be to our mutual benefit to consolidate our assets – both financial and corporeal- and henceforth approach any and all situations as a legally bound, solitary unit.”

“Hmm?” John had replied sleepily, still swimming in a post-orgasmic haze. He snuggled further into Sherlock’s side as Sherlock rolled his eyes, huffing out a grunt of frustration.

“We should get married. Idiot.”

“Ah, just the proposal I’ve always dreamed of.”

“Don’t be dull.”

“Don’t be a twat.”

“Will you marry me or not?”

“Will you buy me flowers?”

“Unlikely.”

“Oh well, I suppose I’ve made my bed. Who’ll wear the dress, then?”

“I’ve deleted the majority of both the traditional and non-conformist styles of wedding ceremonies, but I’m relatively sure that the dress is not a requirement.”

“You’d look lovely in white.”

“I take it back. We’re much better off without a contractual bond to one another.”

“No way, I want the paper now. You’ll marry me and you’ll like it.”

“I’m not wearing a dress.”

“Twat.”

 

***

 

Someone really had to do laundry.

Ha. Someone. _John_ really had to do laundry.

He had run through every article of clothing he owned. For the past two days he’d been wandering around the flat in his swimming trunks. At this moment, he was rummaging through the bottom of his closet, desperately searching for _something_ to wear.

Aha! Success. A rogue pair of jeans seemed to be tucked away behind two boxes that Sherlock had never bothered to unpack, and which John had lugged into the bedroom in a fit of frustration one day.

He started to pull them on when, oh. The stains from where he’d fallen to his knees. The splashes of coffee from when Sherlock threw his cup across the waiting room. And in the pocket…

Those were _those_ jeans. And that was his camera. The one he used to take everywhere. The one whose products littered their flat and John’s desk at work.

Without really stopping to think about it, John pressed the little play button, bringing up pictures saved on the memory card and never uploaded. Hamish, dressed all in white. Riding on Sherlock’s shoulders and shrieking with glee. Chasing ducks in Hyde Park. Asleep in the back of a cab. Staring, transfixed, at a group of street performers. Covered head to toe in mud, standing proudly next to his Daddy who was decorated the same way. Grinning over top his latest finger painting.

Hamish… John hadn’t taken these; would never have taken these. Why would Sherlock…?

John dropped the camera on the bed, barely making it to the bathroom before he started heaving, emptying his stomach into the toilet.

He could wear the swim trunks another day.

 

***

 

As it turned out, even without a bride (and thus, the requisite uterus), people still started in on the newly married couple as soon as the cake was cut. With the same damned question.

“So,” Lestrade grinned, clapping the detective and his blogger each on the shoulder, “When should we expect you two to start having kids?”

He then, of course, snapped a quick picture of Sherlock’s face on his phone before slipping away.

Mrs. Hudson, predictably, was next.

“Should we be expecting the sound of little feet upstairs anytime soon?” she asked the boys, as she coyly sipped on a fresh cocktail. John’s first thought to this was that Sherlock would somehow turn the question into an experiment involving dismembered cat paws, or something of the sort. He must remember to add “animal appendages” to the list on the fridge when they got home…

Several more guests asked variations on the same question (“Why did we invite all these people again?” “They’re our _friends_ , Sherlock”), most of which they laughed off, and one they escaped by pretending to see the photographer across the room.

 

Sherlock’s brow was furrowed in concentration as they rode in the cab on the way home. John was resting his head on his new husband’s shoulder, content and more that just a little drunk.

“They can’t possibly believe we’d be adequate parents.” He announced, quite suddenly. John raised his eyebrows, even though Sherlock couldn’t see, and his own eyes were still closed.

“No?”

“You disagree?”

John shrugged. He’d never really thought of it before.

 

***

 

Sherlock had yet to actually look at John. He seemed to have completely forgotten why he’d even entered the kitchen in the first place, except for to sit at on of the chairs. John rummaged in the cupboard for a moment – he hadn’t been to Tescos in days, and the loaf of bread on the counter had started to mould over a week ago. He was fairly certain the milk had turned, as well.

Pouring Cheerios into a bowl, John set them down – dry- in front of Sherlock.

“You need to eat something.” He muttered, after Sherlock had stared at the bowl for a full eight minutes without moving.

Sherlock stood back up, turning back towards the downstairs bedroom and retreating back inside, shutting the door behind him with a barely audible click.

John left the Cheerios on the table, wandering into the sitting room and flopping down into his chair, staring blankly across at the spot where his husband used to sit.

 

***

 

Once again, it was inexplicably Sherlock who proposed it.

Every once in a while, Sherlock would get these ideas in his head, and refuse to let them go. As John had yet to discover anything he’d actually deny the man if he really wanted it (well, for long, at least), up to and including those livers last Christmas, much to Mike’s confusion and Mrs. Hudson’s dismay, these ideas always managed to find their way into fruition.

This particular idea started off with, “I’ve come to the conclusion that you are an extremely responsible example of the adult male.”

John blinked, wondering what he was going to be sweet-talked into doing for a case this time. “Thank you?”

“You always ensure that I eat and sleep, and that any wounds I manage to obtain are properly cared for. Furthermore, you have an eye for what would be considered to be normal standards of household safety and the frankly obnoxious habit of enforcing them.”

“Back hand, full of knuckles on that one, mate. Ta.”

“As for myself,” Sherlock continued, ignoring John’s smirking sarcasm. “I possess intelligence far above the norm, am uniquely observant and come from a family of means such that, should we ever find ourselves unable to continue to work, we would still remain financially stable.”

“To coin a phrase, love, so far, so obvious. Where’s this going?”

“I have decided that as a unit we are, contrary to both my preliminary assumptions and – likely- popular belief, perfectly qualified to not only raise a child, but most likely raise him or her rather well. Given who usually pass for parents and guardians, and the progeny they produce, it would actually be quite irresponsible of us to deny the world the benefit of our offspring and the talents they would possess.”

John narrowed his eyes at his husband. “Are you asking me to have a baby?”

“Don’t be an idiot, John. I’m proposing that we take Ms. Mary Morstan up on the offer she obviously made you to utilize our sperm to have herself artificially inseminated, and then carry the resulting foetus to term, at which point we would take custody as its fathers. You are quite incapable of having a baby yourself, John, you lack all the requisite organs. Honestly, aren’t you supposed to be a doctor?”

“Oh dear God, Sherlock Holmes is broody.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, leaving the room in a twirl of his housecoat and a significant stomp to his steps.

 

***

 

It was no one’s fault, really. Though try telling that to Sherlock. Or, quite surprisingly, Mrs. Hudson, who had slapped her tenant hard across the face at the funeral. She then took off, running from the room, covering her face in shame.

 

***

 

In a fit of sentimentality, the boys decided to combine samples so as not to actually know who the biological father was and, thus, both feel equally connected to their child.

John realized how truly and idiotically futile that attempt had been the moment he caught his first glimpse of a tiny head already covered in dark and wetly curling hair. Just like John himself, apparently his little swim team had found itself happy to trail along in Sherlock Holmes’ wake.

Oh well, at least they had decided to give the boy his name – Hamish Watson Holmes. John had wanted to add Sherlock’s middle name as the baby’s as well, but Sherlock refused to tell John what it was.

John was the one to cut the chord, and he made sure that they trio was alone the first time Sherlock ever held their son. It wasn’t that he thought Sherlock would embarrass him… well. No, it was more that he knew if others were around that Sherlock would fake the reaction he thought he was supposed to have to make John happy. That, or go the other way completely and possibly end with child services swooping down upon them.

Finally, the room cleared, and John gently transferred the drowsily sleeping infant into his father’s – his _other_ father’s- arms.

Sherlock peered into his son’s face curiously, eyes darting back and forth rapidly, eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

“Remarkable.” He proclaimed after a few minutes of this treatment.

“What’s that?” John smiled, trying to find a setting on his little point and shoot camera which wouldn’t give his new family devil eyes.

“No past. There is literally nothing I can deduce about him. Hamish is, quite literally, a clean slate.”

John laughed, snapping his picture and catching the amazed look on Sherlock’s face as he announced this, never taking his eyes off the baby.

“And just think, we get to be the ones to muck it all up.”

“Indeed. You still have that therapist’s number, yes?”

John laughed again, snapping another picture as Sherlock laughed with him.

 

***

 

It was raining. Not that that was unusual for London, but somehow it made things seem worse. It had rained a lot after Sherlock had stepped off the roof of Bart’s. Had been raining when he’d sat in this very chair, lamenting the death of his best friend to the woman currently sitting across from him.

“Have you brought up my suggestion to Sherlock?”

John almost laughed. Couple’s therapy. She wanted to know if he had discussed attending couple’s therapy with Sherlock. He hadn’t even discussed the possibility of Sherlock getting out of bed long enough to have the sheets changed, much less actually leave the flat and then speak with someone he’d promptly announce was an idiot about his feelings and their relationship.

“No, he’s still in bed most of the time.”

“As I’m sure you know, John, divorce rates in grieving couples are close to 90%.”

Wrong. Divorce rates were closer to 15%, and less than 5% when grief was the only issue.

“You really do need to make the effort and do all that you can to try and save your marriage. Not to mention that Sherlock sounds to be depressed – which is likely putting another strain on your marriage, right?”

John really should have taken Mycroft’s advice all those years ago and fired her. He nodded absently as she continued to speak at him, sparing a glance at the clock on the wall.

Late that night, as he sat in the kitchen staring at his closed bedroom door, John left a message on Ella’s answer phone informing her that he wouldn’t be able to make their next appointment.

 

***

 

If John hadn’t known better, he’d have said that Sherlock had been training for the trials of fathering an infant his entire life. Suddenly, his habits of constantly being on the go, forgoing sleep for days at a time and generally ignoring the shrieking needs of his own body left him at a huge advantage to John.

Not that this advantage made him any more helpful.

John was yawning as he paced the living room, bouncing up and down with every step while Hamish screamed directly into his ear. He was pretty sure the only one he was putting to sleep with this technique was himself, but he’d been doing it for the last hour and a half and would be damned if he was going to stop now.

Sherlock, the insufferable git, was wide awake and messing about with some kind of chemical at the kitchen table.

“He obviously dislikes the bouncing, John.” Sherlock remarked conversationally as he held a test tube up to eye level, swirling it around a little bit.

“Fuck off, Sherlock.” John replied, just as conversationally. Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling off his latex gloves as he stood, throwing them away before holding out his arms for the unhappy little boy.

“Here. Go to bed. You of no use to either me or Hamish this way.”

John tried to think of a retort, but found himself gratefully handing the baby over instead and stumbling into the bedroom he and his husband shared off the kitchen, not even making it under the covers before he passed out. In the sitting room, Sherlock was swaying his upper body in long, 180 degree sweeps as he held Hamish up to his shoulder. He was lucky John had fallen asleep so quickly – the older man would likely have never forgiven his husband for quieting their son in under a minute.

 

***

 

John didn’t even notice when Sherlock’s violin disappeared from its spot in the sitting room. He likely never would have had he not heard the man himself scratching away on it in the middle of the afternoon.

John closed his eyes, considering leaving the flat. He had a headache, and they really needed some food. Or, at least, more tea. He really wasn’t in the mood to listen to Sherlock abuse his Stradivarius, even if it was the only sound the man had made in weeks. 

He was just tucking his wallet into his pocket and toeing on his shoes when the noises from the bedroom changed from scratches to actual notes. Already up, John decided to go out anyway.

He was halfway down the steps when the notes following him changed again, this time arranging themselves into a tune as familiar and hateful as Sherlock’s own eyes. Stumbling on the last step, John hit the wall with his shoulder, sinking down to sit on the floor, tea completely forgotten as his shoulders shook with the sudden onslaught of sobs he tried desperately to keep quiet.

 

***

 

Hamish was three months old and colicky before the boys discovered that the violin could calm him down.

For some reason, it had simply never occurred to John (he blamed sleep deprivation) and Sherlock had apparently ‘deleted’ the fact that music can be soothing to babies.

In truth, he had picked up his violin to vent his own frustrations as Hamish continued his red-faced wail for the second hour in a row. After the first few phrases, the boy started to quiet.

John stared wide-eyed at Sherlock, trying to psychically communicate that if he stopped playing, John might actually kill him.

Sherlock slowed the melody, coaxing out notes he thought might convince Hamish to sleep. John sat gingerly, rubbing light circles over the hiccoughing boy’s back.

It only took twelve bars for Hamish to drift off to sleep. Sherlock kept playing for another twenty, however, as that was how long it took for John to follow him.

 

***

 

When John came back, shopping in hand, he found Sherlock curled up on the sofa, one arm wrapped around John’s pillow from the nest he’d made there, and the other hand clutched around a dusty army man which must have been hiding under the couch.

John had never considered that Sherlock might miss sleeping with him – that he might find himself with the same ache in his chest for his husband’s arms and scent. He found himself wondering now if Sherlock had even been sleeping at all.

He still couldn’t bring himself to approach the man, though, and so instead he ventured into their bedroom to actually change the sheets.

 

***

 

Hamish had some of the most varying interests of any child John had ever come across.

By the age of two he was already reading on his own. This was apparently the norm in the Holmes family, and John was too proud to admit that it hurt a little the first time Hamish took the book from his hands, proclaiming “No, _I_ read it, Da.”

He read everything from Avengers comic books to Good Night, Moon to Gray’s Anatomy (John was almost relieved when Hamish mostly scribbled in the medical text rather than study it with the intensity and slight morbidity of his father).

He knew the names of every major serial killer in the past fifty years, had been exploding pop and mentos since before he could walk, could field strip all of his Nerf guns (though, even between the three of them, they never did manage to get them all back together) and could recite the Doctor’s Pandorica speech off by heart, actions and all.

He was equally happy playing football with John in the park as he was sitting on Sherlock’s knee and learning about facial tells while they watched crap telly talk shows.

He could escape John’s punishments and reprimands with a single look and was the only human being on the planet who could talk Sherlock Holmes out of a sulk using ten words or less.

Of course, to John and Sherlock (and possibly literally in Sherlock’s case), the sun rose and set on the boy.

Until the day that it didn’t.

 

***

 

One morning John woke up to find the bedroom door open, but Sherlock nowhere to be found. There was no one in the bathroom, kitchen, or even the stairwell. No footsteps or creaks came from upstairs, but John never really thought Sherlock would be up there anyway.

Somehow knowing Sherlock wasn’t there was worse than knowing he was. The words ‘danger nights’ echoed in his ears as he reached for his phone.

 

\- **Go out?**

 

He waited four and a half minutes, trying not to stare at his phone in his hand, before switching it on and texting again.

 

\- **I won’t make you buy milk just because you answer me, you know.**

 

That time he let the silence stretch on for a full seven minutes (he timed it). He did, however, stare at his phone blatantly the entire time.

 

\- **When can I expect you home?**

 

He sat heavily on the couch while he waited. Leaning back, John discovered something quite hard and uncomfortable hitting the knot right in the small of his back. Praying not to find another action figure, he reached behind himself to remove the offending object. What he found was worse. Sherlock’s phone, switched off. John could count on one hand the number of times Sherlock had ever left the flat without his phone, and every single one of those times he just couldn’t be arsed to search for and had taken John’s, instead.

Pulling out his own phone again, John opened up a new text window, this time for his brother-in-law.

 

\- **Find Sherlock pls. Not sure where he is, phone still here.**

 

***

 

John stood in the sweet shop down the street. Every year he needed to make the goody bags for Hamish’s birthday better than the last. Not to outdo other parents, but rather to convince them to let their children into the flat.

When Sherlock had offered to plan the birthday parties when Hamish’s first rolled around, John had been overjoyed. It was such an un-Sherlock thing to do.

Unfortunately, his initial enthusiasm made it hard to insist on taking over every year after. The first year there had been an explosion (“Hardly an _explosion_ , John. Besides, the children all seemed to enjoy it.”), and after that, Sherlock had discovered themes.

This year, for Hamish’s third, the theme was skulls.

_Skulls._

John tried to gently explain that “skulls” was not a party theme – especially not for a boy of three- but Sherlock was having none of it. Hamish had developed a recent obsession with the skull on the mantle, and Sherlock was quite enthusiastically encouraging it. He said it was a sign of burgeoning interest in anatomy and biology, and would discourage him from developing unnecessary fears of natural things like death and the human body. John didn’t want their son to be afraid, did he?

And that was how John found himself in the sweet shop, searching desperately for anything with a sugared skull. Unsurprisingly, the pickings were slim.

Luckily, the woman running the shop realized that it was October, and put two and two together. Given the rising popularity of Halloween and trick-or-treating in the UK, she bet that he could find sweetie skulls in shops carrying fancy dress. Also, if he looked online, there were bound to be instructions on how to ice a skull on cupcakes and maybe even mould rice crispies, as well.

Thanking the woman, John paid for the basket of non-skull related treats he had gathered before going off in search of any shop that had an Iron Man or witch in the window.

 

The next morning, after three hours, 200 quid worth of sweets, and every skull shaped or wrapped confectionary John could find – not to mention the eight batches of cupcakes he’d made before his skulls turned out at all skull-like- Hamish announced that he wanted to have a Bob the Builder party like Owen down the road was having.

 

***

 

Mycroft returned Sherlock to 221B Baker Street two hours later, completely strung out.

John – while he knew a bit about Sherlock’s past with drugs- had never actually seen him on them. He knew that Sherlock had preferred cocaine and morphine, and that he took them to sharpen his mind – the same way he would often stick multiple nicotine patches along his forearms.

He didn’t know what Sherlock had taken this time, but he did know that this was not a man who wanted clarity; this was a man who wanted oblivion. Whatever drug he was on was quite obviously not meant to sharpen his mind and help him focus, but rather, to wipe it completely. Given the glazed look in his eyes and the boneless way he slumped against his brother before being dropped unceremoniously into his chair, he had succeeded.

Mycroft nodded once to John, smoothing his hands over his suit front to press away any wrinkles supporting his younger brother may have caused before turning and leaving the flat without speaking a single word. John was amazed he had actually brought his brother in himself and not sent someone else up with him.

Once Mycroft was gone, John closed his eyes, kneeling in front of his husband. He took a few deep breaths, then opened his eyes and slapped Sherlock hard across the face.

“You inconsiderate bastard.” He choked out, sinking forward to lie his head in Sherlock’s lap, wrapping his arms around his waist.

 

Sherlock was gone again the next day. Again, Mycroft brought him home.

When he was gone the third day, John didn’t even bother texting.

 

***

 

Sherlock hated getting his picture taken with a passion. Mycroft had spent their childhood mocking the multiple chins Sherlock seemed to acquire when he grinned, and Mummy scolded him when he refused to smile at all. Besides, in his line of work, it was better if no one remembered exactly what he looked like.

John hadn’t even managed to get him to stay still for a decent picture at their wedding.

The exception was if he had Hamish in his arms. John had entire albums filled with Sherlock holding Hamish, kissing Hamish, rocking Hamish to sleep.

Sherlock never protested these pictures – even requested them himself. Once, tempting fate, John asked why.

Sherlock was silent for a moment before speaking. “I’m not always the most demonstrative with my affections, John, as I’m sure you’re well aware. I just want Hamish to always have tangible proof that I do love him, even if it may not seem like it at the time.”

Needless to say, John never went anywhere without his camera.

 

***

 

“What if you overdose?” John demanded from the couch once Sherlock was lucid enough to answer.

“Don’t be stupid, John. I would never miscalculate that way.”

“That’s a lie. Lestrade told me that you overdosed twice soon after he met you.”

“I apologize, I’ll rephrase. I would never _accidentally_ overdose.”

John felt sick. “What’s to stop you from doing that now, then?”

“I made you a promise, John. I don’t intend on breaking it.”

Right. When he came back. Back from the dead. If only Hamish had inherited that particular gene along with the blue eyes and gangly limbs.

“Will you stop?”

Silence.

“I’ll leave.”

“If you must.”

“Don’t you care?”

“Of course I care. But, as always, caring won’t help – it won’t stop you.”

“God, I really hate you.”

“Yes, me too.”

John stormed into the room, grabbing a bag from the closet with every intention of throwing all of his clothes inside that would fit and walking out the front door.

Instead, he lay down on the bed, hugging a pillow that smelled like Sherlock, but looked and felt nothing like Hamish.

 

By the time it clicked that Sherlock wasn’t proclaiming his hate for _John_ , the front door had closed and Sherlock was gone again.

 

On the third night since Sherlock had left, John started mentally compiling a list of all the promises Sherlock had ever broken. “I won’t keep anymore body parts in the fridge” and “I’ll call the crèche in the morning.” Then, he just waited for the call so that he could add “I’ll never do this to you again” to the list.

 

***

 

One of John’s favourite things to do when he came home from work at the clinic was to creep in as quietly as he could, sitting at the bottom of the stairs leading to Hamish’s room. Every once in a while, if he was lucky, he would hear the rare sound of Sherlock’s deep voice reading actual children’s stories (though never, _ever_ , Hansel and Gretel).

John’s favourite was when Sherlock would recite The Jabberwocky from Alice in Wonderland – the fact that they didn’t actually own a copy of the book led John to the eventual belief that the detective had actually memorized it for their son. That and the fact that Sherlock did all of the voices made John feel all squidgy inside.

He thought that his guilty pleasure had reached its end when Hamish was two. John had just settled onto the bottom step when the door above him opened. John was sure the jig was up, when he heard Sherlock’s voice.

“I wonder if Da’s home yet, Hay. What do you think?” Sherlock asked loudly, staying behind the door long enough for John to scramble into the sitting room.

That bloody git. He’d probably always known John sat there listening to him. Probably saving it for when he really wanted to mock him. Dragging it out, letting it last.

God, he really loved that annoying dick.

 

***

 

John had been sleeping in the bedroom ever since Sherlock had left five days ago, finally abandoning his nest on the couch. It was there that Sherlock found him when he finally re-emerged.

Before he’d even opened his eyes, Sherlock had pressed something into John’s hand.

“Could I sleep with you tonight?” he asked, his deep baritone smaller than John had ever heard it.

Buying himself time, John held the object in his fingertips, trying to make it out in the dim light from the street lamp outside the window.

A vial of cloudy liquid, a rubber stopper in the top, obviously Sherlock’s recent drug of choice.

Eyes still bleary and muddled with sleep, John turned his gaze to Sherlock himself. Backlit as the man was, he couldn’t see him that well, but he actually _looked_ for the first time in, well, ages.

He was far too thin. Even shadows told him that. Thinner than he’d ever been – thinner than when he’d first borrowed John’s phone, thinner than when he came back from the dead, looking like the skeleton that had climbed out of the grave rather than the man who had been hunting killers for three years. John hadn’t been playing the part of responsible adult very well – he realized he didn’t have the faintest clue when or what the last thing Sherlock ate was.

He closed his eyes again, stopping his survey of the man.

“Sherlock, I can’t… I can’t…”

“I know.” Sherlock interrupted. “I know I look like him. It hurts me, too. I changed my hair…” he reached up to run a nervous hand over a head which, John realized with a start, was cropped close and dyed a light brown. “But it doesn’t seem to help. You can pretend I’m someone else, if you’d like. The mind can convince itself of astounding things when given the right motivation. I just… find myself wanting, _needing_ … ugh, it’s so _dull_ , and pedestrian and absolutely illogical, but I think I need to be held. By you.” John could practically hear him biting his lip. “If you can’t, though, I understand. I’ll leave. Just… just let me know.”

Finishing his little speech, Sherlock stood at the side of the bed awkwardly, shoulders hunched and head low. He took a breath as if to say something else, but exhaled it slowly instead, not making eye contact with John.

John carefully placed the vial on his nightstand, lifting the blankets so Sherlock could climb in. Which he did, coat and all. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders as the taller man scootched down the bed so he could tuck his head under John’s chin. And if John felt Sherlock’s shoulders shaking, or a wetness against his collarbone, well, he really didn’t see the need to comment on it.

 

***

 

Hamish went through phases, like all little boys of almost four. For two months, he wanted nothing more than to be a Jedi warrior. He dressed all in white, pulled one sleeve over his hand (to really feel like Luke), tried with all the might of a Holmes, Watson, and sci-fi geek to move objects with an outstretched hand, and had even convinced Sherlock to teach him some sword fighting utilizing two sawn-off broom handles (which John had put an immediate stop to the moment he got home).

For another three-week stretch, his hero was Superman, and so Hamish could be found sporting a cape (John’s favourite red bath towel) and his pants outside his trousers, running around as fast as he could, lifting things high above his head and vaulting over the backs of his fathers’ chairs.

“Daddy!” he’d shout breathlessly from across the room. “Was that faster than a bullet?”

“Humanly impossible, Hamish.” Sherlock would reply.

“Da?” the boy would turn to John, who would shoot Sherlock a dirty look before turning to their son.

“Good thing Superman’s not human then, eh Haym? Looked loads faster than any bullet I’ve ever seen.” At which Hamish would grin and run off to find a book large enough to be impressive when he lifted it.

The starting point of another month of obsessive play came when the family was down near Picadilly Circus and they noticed a parkour demonstration outside one of the nearby pubs. Hamish stopped dead, completely entranced by the boys and girls who seemed to fly from surface to surface. One of the boys stopped to give Hamish a high five, and it was officially love.

The moment he got home he put on his toe socks from Aunt Harry (to replicate the five finger shoes many of the free-runners had been wearing), one of John’s old vests and a pair of Sherlock’s silky boxer briefs (which only sagged a little, as John was quick to mockingly point out to his husband). Before they knew it, he was climbing everything – the couch, the chairs, the kitchen table, even the mantle and, on one memorable occasion, his Uncle Mycroft. He would jump off the stairs from two or three steps up, then drop to his knees and somersault in his own version of landing with a combat roll. He spent five straight hours in front of the wall in the kitchen one evening trying to stand up straight on his hands.

Sherlock and John started discussing enrolling him in gymnastics. Well, John discussed it. Sherlock asked what the point of such a hobby could possibly be, and that Hamish was surely too short to reach those rings anyway (this when John tried using the recent summer Olympics that had constantly played in the flat to demonstrate a possible career leading from the sport).

The conversation had ended with John laughing and running out to pick up dinner, shouting a good-bye to Hamish over his shoulder, while Sherlock went into his mind palace, John’s Olympic comment having sprung something loose pertaining to the case they were currently working for Lestrade.

Faintly, behind him, he heard Hamish start to run up the stairs.

“No jumping off the stairs, Hay! Wait until Da buys you a mat!” he called up distractedly, venturing deeper into his mind, barely hearing the door open then close to Hamish’s room.

The best they can figure from that point was that Hamish had wanted to try climbing across a ledge using only his fingertips. John remembered one of the girls performing a similar feat on the Tudor beam work of the pub in Picadilly.

Sherlock didn’t even hear the window open. He’d barely registered Mrs. Hudson’s scream. It was when she screamed the second time that his eyes flew open and he raced up the stairs to the bedroom where his three-year-old should have been. Sheer instinct drew him to the window, and looking down, he never felt worse for what he had put his John through, the day he did everything to save his life.

He couldn’t imagine how John would feel now, noting the parallels, living it all again, when he saw that small body crumpled on the ground, black curls – just like his Daddy’s- wet and matted with the blood that was spreading out in a grotesque halo around his small, precious head.

 

***

 

That night, Sherlock and John made love for the first time in the eight months, sixteen days, fourteen hours, and thirty-seven minutes since they had lost everything.

It wasn’t a night full of passion – biting teeth and groping hands, desperate thrusts and curses on their lips. It was quiet, slow, gentle – like each was afraid the other would break, or startle away. Fingers haltingly found reassurance in the heavy thrum of pulse-points. Mouths brushed wetly as tears slicked their lips. John cried as he ran his hands over Sherlock’s head, grieving the curls he’d hated the very sight of. Sherlock held his breath and hoped not to wake up too soon.

There was no explosive finish, each crying each other’s name in agonizing pleasure. Instead, the pressure released like the air from a tire, and they slumped down into each other’s arms, each with his eyes tightly closed, willing morning not to come, or the world to end, because they just didn’t know how to face it anymore.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Lewis Carroll's The Jabberwocky.
> 
> Please don't look at parkour in a bad light, or think that I do. I love watching it, am trying to get into it, and only used it because of my most recent obsession with it.


End file.
